Hell for Leather
by roane
Summary: It takes an interrupted fancy dress party to tip off John about what's really going on in Sherlock's head.


_I don't know what I was thinking._ John sat in the back of a cab trying not to squirm, the leather of the seats catching uncomfortably against the leather covering his arse. He should have never let Jennifer—no, Jessica—talk him into going to a fancy dress party at all. Given the number of dates that had been interrupted by Sherlock's cases, and given his current clothing, he should have expected this one to have a higher than average likelihood of interruption. And, knowing that, even if he had gone ahead and agreed to go to the party, he should have planned for a costume that was either more inconspicuous or easier to change out of. But no. Jenn—_Jessica_ wanted a pirate costume, complete with ridiculous leather trousers, knee-high boots, and a billowy white shirt. It had been their second date, but now he wasn't holding out hope for a third.

It was just as well. Since he'd moved in with Sherlock, John hadn't met a single, solitary person—man or woman—who was half as interesting as the mad git he lived with. Which was... problematic, to say the least, and not something he spent much time dwelling on. Still, John was reaching a point where he wondered if continually trying to date other people was a bit unfair, and what he should do about it if was.

He could see the flashing lights up ahead and knew he was getting close. Oh Christ, he was never going to hear the end of this. He wished desperately he had a long coat like Sherlock's, but he was stuck with his usual black jacket. Thank god he hadn't gone with a fake mustache. He'd at least had the forethought to snatch the fake pigtail, complete with red ribbon, out of his hair before leaving the party.

John paid the cabbie and climbed out, feeling as if every single eye in London was fixed squarely on his ridiculous costume. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pocket and squared his chin, walking towards the building. A uniformed PC waved him in. "On the roof," she said. She didn't seem to notice him at first, but he looked back as he reached the lift and saw her watching him curiously.

John came out onto the roof to find Sherlock and Lestrade both standing near a corpse.

"John, what took you so lo—" Sherlock's eyes widened as he got a look at John, and he swallowed whatever else he was going to say.

"John, what the hell?" That was Lestrade, who looked about two seconds away from a loud, attention-getting guffaw.

"Fancy dress party, all right? You sods can take a look and have a good giggle, or we can get down to business here." John looked at the two of them, challenging them to say anything at all. The wind was brisk up here, and John discovered quickly that the insulating properties of a linen shirt—jacket or no—left something to be desired.

"Well." Sherlock cleared his throat, and indicated the corpse. "Tell me what you think." He refused to look in John's direction at all, probably to keep from laughing, John thought sourly.

He knelt near the corpse—young Caucasian male, likely no more than twenty-five years old. He could see the bruises on the man's neck, livid against corpse-pale skin. "Strangulation would be my best guess," John said, hovering a hand over the man's neck. "Bigger hands than mine."

"So likely the killer is male, but we can't rule out a woman entirely," Sherlock said. John didn't have to look up to hear the smirk in his voice.

"Yes, ha ha," John said.

"Have your people canvass the building for witnesses," Sherlock said, "but it seems unlikely you'll find any. Text me when Molly has her report finished. Come on, John."

John scrambled to his feet. "Wait, what? That's it? You dragged me all this way to tell you something you already knew? I was at a party."

"Yes, and you were bored out of your mind," Sherlock said. "This is more fun."

John followed him into the lift, clenching his fists to keep from strangling his flatmate. "Sherlock, I'm dressed as a bloody pirate, and you drag me across the city to look at some poor bastard's neck for two minutes."

"One minute and forty-seven seconds." He looked at John for the first time since John first stepped out on the roof. "You'd make a good pirate," he said.

"What?"

Sherlock waved a gloved hand in his general direction. "It's just... not a costume you would have picked normally. It suits you."

John opened his mouth then paused, catching the look in Sherlock's eyes. This was something new. Sherlock wasn't looking at him like something he'd like to smear on a slide and stick under a microscope—which was Sherlock's usual expression when John did something unexpected. There was something strangely young in Sherlock's eyes, but at the same time, something, well... something very adult. John felt a tiny thrum of power, the thrill of having the upper hand over Sherlock for once. "So... are you suggesting I should dress like this more often?"

There was a faint touch of colour creeping up Sherlock's neck from beneath his scarf. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm simply saying that your date has much better taste in clothing than you do."

What was going on here? This was, as far as John could remember, the first time Sherlock had said anything about what John was wearing—well, anything positive, anyway. "I don't think taste in clothing had anything to do with it," John said, leaning against the lift wall. He decided to test the waters a bit. "She told me she just wanted to see what my arse looked like in leather trousers." As if on cue, the lift doors opened, and John sauntered out ahead of Sherlock, and he knew, he knew if he turned around, Sherlock would be looking to see for himself.

John could barely keep from grinning the entire cab ride back to the flat. The tension coming from Sherlock's side of the cab was a palpable thing. Of course, John had no idea what, if anything, he wanted to do about that tension (yet), but he was delighted nonetheless to see that Mr. "It's All Transport" was interested in someone else's transport for a change.

He hopped out of the cab first at Baker Street, leaving Sherlock to pay the driver and then follow him up the stairs. The last time John had felt so intensely watched he'd been holding a rifle and on patrol. He tossed his jacket onto the coat rack and turned to see Sherlock unwinding his scarf.

John wasn't sure what to do next. Whatever game this was, he wasn't quite ready to stop playing. He leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, folding his arms across his chest. Sherlock walked toward him and started to move past into the kitchen, but John stayed where he was, blocking him.

"Let me by," Sherlock said.

"Not until you explain the sudden fascination with my clothes," John said. Aha, and there it was unmistakable, even in the dim light of the flat: Sherlock was blushing.

"You're being deliberately obtuse," Sherlock said, his voice low and a touch unsteady. It was the sound that decided John.

"Then explain it to me," John said, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. "Slowly, if you need to."

Sherlock looked him in the eyes and didn't say anything at first. The moment stretched out, went far past any casual glance. John stayed where he was, feeling the corners of his lips twitch upwards. Sherlock's cheeks were a pale pink, matching the tips of his ears. His eyes were intent, and the spark there ignited an answering spark in John's gut. He should have been concerned. It should have been odd. Instead it felt like one of them was about to answer a question they'd been dancing around for months.

Sherlock answered it first, of course. He reached out and curled his fist into the loose, soft linen of John's shirt and hauled him in, bracing one hand on the doorframe over John's head as he swooped down for a kiss. It was easy, then, to reach up and wrap one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck to keep him where he was.

"I thought you didn't do this," John said, his lips against Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock growled, "I would have done it a lot sooner if you weren't so bloody oblivious."

Once the dam was breached, there was no stopping the deluge. The kiss intensified fast, faster than John was used to with past partners. It took him a moment to take control back, crowding Sherlock into the other doorframe, pressing that long, lanky body into the wood with the simple shift of his thigh muscles. John broke the kiss first, unable to hide his grin. "So, you're a fan of leather trousers."

"They're not—it's not that." Sherlock was a little breathless. "It's _you_. And the trousers." John leaned up and kissed him slow until Sherlock's breath was even more audible. "...and the boots," Sherlock said.

"So you're saying you're a fan of pirates, then." John smirked and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, leaning in hard to press the full length of his body against Sherlock's. He felt the hard press of Sherlock's erection against his belly, and shifted to be sure that Sherlock felt how hard he was as well.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, but then he groaned and slipped his hands around to grab John's arse and press him in tighter.

"Do we need to talk about this first?" 'This' was definitely going to happen, and John felt like he should try to be at least a little responsible.

"No. Well yes. Later." It was the most incoherent John had ever seen him. Sherlock leaned down and nipped at John's earlobe. "Please."

The 'please' threatened to undo him. "God, yes." The sibilant had barely left John's lips when Sherlock pushed back, and once again John had his back to the doorframe. Something in his brain threatened to short out when Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of him and started running his long, pale fingers over the shiny black leather of his boots. He looked up at John, then lowered his mouth to the leather that covered the top of John's foot.

Logically, John knew he couldn't feel anything other than the pressure of Sherlock's mouth, and maybe a bit of extra heat from his breath, but that didn't explain the jolt of pleasure that ran up his leg. The back of his neck tingled as he watched Sherlock slowly lick up front of John's calf, then place a kiss on his knee.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock shook his head, and started mouthing his way up the front of John's thigh with a small groan. John could hear the low dragging sound of Sherlock's tongue against his trousers and thought he was losing his mind. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, only to jerk forward with a gasp when Sherlock's hand brushed across his crotch. Sherlock was looking up at him, his mouth open and pink against the black leather. John realised he was waiting for permission, so he nodded slowly, feeling as if he were moving through water.

John couldn't look away while Sherlock unfastened the broad, showy belt John wore, all the while licking at the shape of John's erection through the heavy material of his trousers. He couldn't help but whimper a little at the sight—when he'd dressed earlier in the evening, it would never have occurred to him that the evening would end like this, with his flatmate on his knees in front of him, making hungry little sounds while he licked and nipped at the leather covering John's cock. Sherlock didn't unfasten the trousers beyond the top button, just enough to let him pull the tail of John's shirt out and shove it up, leaving John to tuck the light linen out of the way.

Sherlock didn't unzip the trousers much at all—in fact, just enough to let the swollen tip of John's cock pop out of the top. All the while, Sherlock had one hand along the shaft, stroking it up and down in a steady rhythm. When Sherlock licked at the wet tip, swathed in dark grey cotton pants, John fought to keep his eyes open; he couldn't keep from groaning and clenching his hands. As John watched, Sherlock slipped the pants out of the way, and went back to lapping at just the exposed glans. It was torture: almost but not quite enough sensation, but at the same time, John felt overwhelmed. His knees were starting to shake. He could feel the quick, even pressure of Sherlock's hand stroking him up and down, could hear the soft sounds of that hand against damp leather. And then Sherlock's mouth, so warm and slick and almost enough. If he could just...

Sherlock interrupted his thoughts by pulling away and murmuring, "Can you come from this?"

"Maybe. Christ, I don't know. Your mouth feels so good."

Sherlock smiled up at him and John felt warmth creeping across his face and chest. John reached out and cupped Sherlock's cheek. He curled his fingers around the base of Sherlock's skull and tugged gently, urging Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock obeyed, but kept his hand where it was, still stroking John through his trousers. John drew him in for a slow kiss, savouring the slight saltiness of his own skin in Sherlock's mouth. "Didn't realise you had a thing for leather," he murmured, teasing.

Sherlock chuckled softly. "You didn't realise I had a thing for you, either. Clearly you're not that observant."

John was still achingly hard under Sherlock's hand, but he couldn't ignore the other sensation, the growing awareness of a door opening here, a door he'd never even dared touch. "We're... really doing this."

"Unless you're about to object," Sherlock said, tightening his hand on John's cock.

"No, just... checking."

Sherlock leaned close, and his voice was dark in John's ear. "I want you to fuck me, and I want you to leave the trousers and boots on."

John laughed, the sound shaky and uneven. "I got that impression, yes." He bit at the muscle that joined Sherlock's head to his shoulder, and was rewarded with a moan. "Go to your bedroom," he said, "I'll be right behind you."

Sherlock smirked, his eyes dark with promise. "Aye, aye, Captain."


End file.
